


Linoleum

by swift_river_singing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, F/F, Office Sex, Shameless Smut, Trauma, is this what they call pwp?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swift_river_singing/pseuds/swift_river_singing
Summary: Hermione  is looking for oblivion; Pansy is happy to oblige.





	

Hermione was smoothing down her skirt when she heard the familiar click, click, click of stilettos on the linoleum outside the stall door. She exhaled, an audible puff of resignation-- _of course it's her, after the day I've had_ \--and immediately regretted it. The heels paused.

"Granger."

"Parkinson."

Hermione tried to match the other woman's tone, aloof and regal, but her voice sounded small and shrill even to her own ears. She didn't let herself guess what Pansy must have thought of it. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, not that she cared in the slightest what that Slytherin bint thought of her--

"Granger, are you coming out of that stall? Or," the voice dropped in sultry amusement, "are you really hiding from me now?"

Another breath in, and out, like her mum had taught her to do in "times of stress." (God, no wonder Pansy thought she was a swot. Who thinks of their mother when they're likely about to-- Well. Anyway.)

She gave her skirt one last tug--it was hopeless, really, like most of her clothing--smoothed her robes down over it, and then stepped out of the stall. The other woman had moved to the sinks by then and was preening in the mirror. Hermione tried not to watch as Pansy gathered her dark waves up in one hand as if she planned to tie them back. But then Pansy pursed her lips and, with a shake of her head, let the curls tumble down around her face, her neck, her collarbone. One lock of hair tangled with the necklace she wore, a chain with a silver pendant that dropped down, heavy, between her...

Too late, Hermione remembered to breathe. Her hasty gulp of air was too loud, again, and Pansy looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. A satisfied smirk played on the corners of the other woman's mouth; she tilted her head to the left but did not turn around, not yet.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?" she purred, without lifting her gaze from her own reflection. Sudden as a rain shower, Hermione felt the familiar pulse of blood in her cunt. _It's not fair,_ she thought helplessly, _she shouldn't be allowed to_ lean _like that, to look at me like that. It's mad!_

Madness had been the excuse Hermione clung to, the first time it happened. _Temporary insanity, probably brought about due to stress + overwork,_ she had written in her diary. _No need to panic._ Underlined twice, for good measure. It was, after all, a very busy time, what with the performance review coming up for all the Ministry trainees, and her whole career, all her careful plans, all riding on the good word of her arse of a boss. Hermione's life was a blur of paperwork and meetings and gritting her teeth as insufferable officials droned on about safeguarding tradition. Hermione put her head down and she worked, and worked, and worked. It didn't feel like before, though, when she just knew that if she studied a little longer, pushed a little harder, she could solve it. Now, she was working for...what exactly? The ability to fall asleep at night, before inconvenient questions muscled their way through her mental defenses. She came home each night wrapped in exhaustion, the world slowed to a dreamy, deadened haze, and sleep caught her before anything else could. 

Naturally, she'd taken up smoking, a fact she took pains to conceal from Harry and Ron. That's what first brought her to the fire escape, and that's how she discovered that a certain Slytherin was a smoker too. More unsettling than her new habit was the way that Slytherin had of lounging about in outrageously tight skirts, and staring up at you from under dark eyelids, as if she could scorch your blouse off with her eyes alone. Pansy had kissed her first, Hermione was nearly sure of it. It had been very late at night, and she hadn't slept in almost two days, and some last brittle piece of her had shattered as she watched the smoke drift out of Pansy's lips, cloud, and disappear. The office had been so very dark and empty, and really, anyone could go a little mad under those circumstances, couldn't they?

Madness might explain, too, why Hermione kept finding herself at work, staring blankly at her parchment while a film roll played on loop in her head. Pansy writhing her way out of her skintight top; Pansy's hands inside Hermione's robes, yanking aside her knickers and letting them drop, sodden, to the floor; the heavy bob of Pansy's bare breasts as she thrust one finger, then two, then three into Hermione's dripping cunt. The look of concentration in Pansy's eyes as she rubbed her thumb over Hermione's clit, steady and slow, and the triumph that replaced it when Hermione finally collapsed, trembling, against any available surface. Melted, undone.

Madness, though, was beginning to seem more worrisome. Horrified with herself--Pansy Parkinson? Really?--Hermione had promised herself that their little adventure on the smoking balcony was a one time occurrence. But then there was the alley by the pub, that time after work; there was the supply closet downstairs, amid the brooms and buckets; and, of course, the archive room that one memorable morning, when Hermione was supposed to be retrieving a file and ended up getting fucked against the cabinet, hollering panicked excuses to the people who came by and found the door locked. Pansy had just smiled, quiet as poison.

Rather like she was smiling now, actually. "Well?" Pansy purred, snapping Hermione out of her reverie. "Weren't you going to wash up, Granger?" Resentful, silent, Hermione stepped forward nonetheless. She tried to look only at the wash basin, not the woman beside it, but she could feel Pansy's eyes on her, sliding up and down her body as if she owned it. Click, click--she was behind her now, but Hermione wasn't going to look. The water streamed scalding from the tap, and Hermione hissed in quick pain before a manicured hand reached around to turn the cold faucet. "Cheers," Hermione muttered, trying to ignore how close Pansy was standing. She tried to focus on the slide of soap over her hands, the water pouring down, the hand slipping down her side to cup her hip-- "Oh..." she breathed, surrender sinking down her body like syrup. She lifted her eyes, now, to take in Pansy's reflection, standing behind her with one hand resting on Hermione's waist, the other still roaming, roaming.

"That's better," Pansy hummed into her ear, sending goosebumps chasing down Hermione's neck, her spine, her arms. "I was beginning to think you didn't miss me after all. Colloportus," she drawled, and Hermione shivered at the click of the lock. Quiet. Just Hermione's heart thumping tense, fragile life, and Pansy's hot breath on the skin just behind her ear.

But--"Miss you?" Hermione bit back, collecting herself."Parkinson, I know you think highly of yourself, but I've been more than busy. Hodgins has me drowning in paperwork, and every spare moment I've got to spend reading up on centaurs for that -- that, that meeting with the-- the bloke from Magical Creatures, and..." Pansy was standing on her tiptoes to lift the taller girl's robes from her shoulders, and Hermione felt each touch of her fingers like embers. The robes slid down Hermione's body to pool at her feet. Pansy, still fully robed, was smirking again.

"Poor Granger," she murmured, sing-song. "No professors to give you points for being a know-it-all, no more Chosen One or quest to make you feel special." With each barb, Pansy's slender fingers traced curlicues around Hermione's collarbone, her sternum. "Whatever will the great Hermione Granger make of herself, now that it's all over? Spend her life sorting files? Marry the Weasel? Have a nice little cottage in a nice little village, raise some nice little brats, do the Prophet crossword every morning? Or, don't tell me, is it Sudoku?"

"And what would you know about any of that?" Hermione growled. "At least I could have a family, if I wanted. As if anyone would ever let you anywhere near a child, knowing what you're capable of, the kind of company you've kept!" Hermione was surprised at the venom throbbing through her words, but she barreled on. "You can dress in fancy clothes, do your nails up, strut around like a great lady. But no one in the Ministry is ever really going to trust you, never. You're damaged goods, Parkinson."

Pansy's fingers had slowed their rhythmic circles across Hermione's neck and shoulders, and with those last words, stopped altogether. A witch less sharp than Hermione might have missed the quick flash of hurt that furrowed Pansy's brow and then was smoothed into nothingness. "You might as well say it, Granger. You think I haven't heard? You think I'm a Death Eaters' whore, isn't that right? Slytherin coward, tried to give up Saint Harry Potter." Her left hand had resumed its circling, dropping lower and lower to trail between Hermione's breasts. "But what does it mean, then," Pansy murmured, venomous too, " that last week you, Little Miss Golden Girl, were sitting atop a desk, legs wrapped around the head of a Death Eaters' whore, begging her to let you come?" Pansy pinched Hermione's nipple between her thumb and forefinger, over her shirt, and Hermione gasped.

"Parkinson, don't be ridiculous, we can't--" But then Pansy dug her teeth into the flesh of Hermione's shoulder, sharp pain, delicious, and her hand grabbed Hermione's breast and squeezed. Then Hermione had spun around and she was kissing Pansy, kissing her like a perfectly hurled curse, like nothing mattered, like crying as if she’d never stop. It was all Pansy's lips, filthy soft, the heavy swirl of Pansy's tongue, the nip of Pansy's teeth on her lower lip, and the copper taste of blood. And Pansy's hands were moving, too, sliding down Hermione's ribcage to grasp her top and pull it up. Pansy laughed roughly as the shirt snagged on Hermione's breasts. She gave it another pull, Hermione's chest bouncing under the cotton fabric, and then the shirt was up over her shoulders, Hermione obediently wriggling out of it.

"God, Granger," Pansy breathed, wincing as if the words burned her lips. "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?" Her mouth was on Hermione's throat, sending chills up her spine to collect, electric, at the base of her skull. Then, she was moving downward, soft kisses dotting Hermione's chest until she reached the little pyramids of the taller girl's breasts. Without missing a beat, she tucked the bra cups down under Hermione's breasts, pushing them upwards. Hermione whimpered as Pansy circled the outside of her nipple with the point of her tongue, once, twice, then looked up at Hermione as she flicked her tongue against the center, flesh rising into a point to greet her. Pansy did the same on the other side, and Hermione forgot how to move, how to speak. She was just fire, just the desperate need to have that mouth (Parkinson's mouth, she tried to remind herself) on her clit, or inside of her. "Please..." Hermione heard herself moan, but if Pansy heard her, she gave no sign. Both hands firmly on Hermione's hips now, she moved from the other woman's nipples downward, pressing her mouth here, sucking and leaving love bites there. Hermione was muttering nonsense syllables by the time Pansy made it below her belly button, and with a soft scrape of teeth above her pelvis, looked up at the taller girl once more. Hermione's head was thrown back, and her chest was heaving, but as she looked down for a moment she saw Pansy watching the swell of her breasts, moving out and in. _Won't she dirty her hose, kneeling like that?_ a last coherent voice in Hermione's head wondered. Then Pansy's breath was on Hermione's clit, and Pansy's tongue darted inside her, curled, swirled, and there was no more thinking, only slick hot rhythm.

Hermione could feel the warmth pooling between her legs, feel her muscles tensing up. Her mind was just flashes and colors, the sound of Pansy's breath, growing more frantic as the other woman thrust her tongue deeper inside her. Her thumb was rubbing a fevered caress against Hermione's clit while her other hand grabbed at her waist, her ass, her thigh. Hermione felt her knees buckle and she clutched at the sink behind her for support. She realized, dimly, that her hands were knotted through Pansy's hair, that she was muttering an unceasing stream of profanities that would have made her mother disown her, if she could remember who she was. But it was too late to recover her dignity: the tension was building in her legs, her belly, her chest, and she would just die if Pansy didn't keep doing that with her tongue, might just die if she did keep doing it. And then Pansy squeezed her ass, gave another heavy, swirling lick up her slit, pressed down hard with her thumb on Hermione's clit, and then Hermione was coming, and coming, and coming.

She kept her eyes shut as the last tremors worked their way through her body. Clothing rustled and she felt the brush of Pansy's robes against her skin, Pansy's hand on the sink beside her own as the other woman pulled herself up from the floor. Hermione kept her eyes shut as a dizzying mess of images rose in a rush, pressed against the edges of her consciousness until they broke through and consumed her:

_the splay of bloody bodies in the hallways where she used to walk to Ancient Runes_

_her tidy desk at the Ministry_

_the stars above the Forest of Dean_

_Ron at the window in his new flat, staring out like he thought he could find something_

_Hagrid carrying Harry's limp body out of the forest_

_the slump of her mum's shoulders as Hermione's spell snatched her memories_

_a rain of pages ripped out of books, the neatly alphabetized shelf turned to sawdust under Hermione's spell; fingers, her own, still desperate to tear, to tear, to tear_

_and Pansy's dark, dark eyes, looking up at her with lust and also, something that looked like pity._

Hermione kept her own eyes shut. She didn't move, as she heard Pansy's breath, felt her standing as if suspended in time, close enough to touch. And then she heard Pansy sigh, turn and click, click, click away, toward the door. Hermione still didn't look when the other girl stopped, coughed. For the first time, Hermione thought dully, Pansy sounded nervous.

"You know, Granger--" Pansy halted, as if searching for the words. "It doesn't have to be like-- I mean. Whatever people expect, whatever you expected... You don't have to, you know, be okay. If you're not." Pansy paused again, as if she was about to say something more, but then just exhaled, loud in the drafty room. "Alohomora," she muttered, and the door creaked once, twice, and thudded shut. Hermione opened her eyes. She crouched to pull her panties back up, off the linoleum floor. She slid her bra straps back up her shoulders, readjusted the cups over her breasts, yanked her shirt back down over her torso. It was only when she turned to the mirror and caught her own eyes staring back that she realized that she was crying.


End file.
